While Kasim was talking the Governor had searched for and found a folder from which he now took a paper. He handed it across the desk. Kasim unfolded his hands, took the paper, felt in his pocket for his spectacles.
‘As you will see, Mr Kasim, that is a very short note which, if signed, will be your undertaking not to commit or cause to be committed any act whose effect is to disturb the peace or to hinder the defence of the realm. The undertaking would be valid for a period of six months from the date of signature. As you’ll also see there’s a rider to the effect that the signatory would, if called upon, use his best endeavours to inhibit the effects of any such acts committed within the province by others. You’ll notice the paper says nothing about resigning from Congress. But sign the paper and I’ll still tear this other paper up.’
‘Yes, I see,’ Mr Kasim said. He put the note back on the Governor’s desk and replaced his spectacles in their case. ‘You are expecting trouble, then. You have realized the disadvantages of having to lock us up to stop us rousing what you call the mob. But the mob perhaps rouses itself. And it is uncontrolled. It wants to know what you’ve done with us. All kinds of undesirable elements emerge. You want me therefore to become a sort of ex-officio peacemaker, armed with soothing words and no integrity. As you say, the paper says nothing about resigning from Congress, but it need not do so, of course. If I signed it I would be expelled. To sign it is tantamount to resignation. I could not sign it. You didn’t expect me to, but I suppose you thought it was worth a try. I’m afraid you must cope with the mob without me.’
‘Well we can do that and will.’ For a while the Governor was silent, watching Kasim. Then he said, ‘You are in a curious position.’
‘I do not see it as curious.’
‘I was thinking of your private position. Of your elder son, for instance, who holds the King-Emperor’s commission. He fought in Malaya, and now he’s a prisoner of war of the Japanese. It has always puzzled me why you allowed him to join the army.’
‘Allow? He was under no obligation to seek my approval. It was his wish. India must have an army as well as a government. He became an officer. I became a minister.’
‘And you both served under the crown. Quite. But you no longer do. He does. No doubt you have heard rumours of the pressures being put on Indian prisoners, officers and men, to secure their release from prison camp by joining units that will fight side by side with the Japanese. News of your imprisonment might well be used by the enemy to add to those pressures in your son’s case. He was an excellent officer, I believe. He would be useful to them. His loyalty as an officer might be subjected to severe strain if he hears that we have put his father in jail. In his present circumstances he cannot simply resign his commission as you resigned your ministerial appointment. That is the difference, isn’t it?’
‘I think it is a difference he will appreciate. Just as he will appreciate that I cannot let personal considerations affect my political judgement.’
‘Yes,’ the Governor said, ‘I expect it is,’ and stood up in a way that conveyed to Kasim that the interview was at an end. He stood up too. In the pit of his stomach he felt the old familiar hollowness. He did not want to go to prison.
The Governor held out his hand. Kasim took it.
‘I’m afraid that for the time being at any rate your whereabouts aren’t to be made known, and this restriction must unfortunately apply in the case of your family. They will write to you care of Government House, and your own letters will automatically come here. I hope, Mr Kasim, that occasionally you will think of writing personally to me.’
‘Thank you. Am I to be allowed newspapers?’
‘I shall give the necessary instructions.’
‘Then I’ll say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Kasim.’
Kasim bowed his head, hesitated, and then walked towards the double doors behind which, he knew, the young police officer to whom the senior man had handed him over, and two British military policemen, would be waiting. But just before he reached the doors he heard the Governor call his name, and turned. The Governor was still standing behind the desk. He made a gesture with both hands, indicating the desk, the papers on it.
‘May I send you away with an interesting thought that has suddenly struck me?’
‘What is that, your Excellency?’
‘That one day this desk will probably be yours.’
Kasim smiled, looked round the room. The thought, just at that moment, was almost sickening. He said, ‘Yes. You are probably right,’ and, still smiling, turned and took the last few paces to his more immediate prison.
*
At dusk Mr Kasim was taken from the upstairs room where he had been kept all day and driven to the sidings of the railway station at Ranpur cantonment. Here he was transferred to a carriage of the kind used to transport troops, most of whose windows had been blocked by steel shutters. The young officer in charge of him was joined by another. An armed sentry stood guard at the only door of the carriage that was still in use. When approaching the carriage Kasim saw that it was uncoupled. There were other soldiers and police in the vicinity. When he entered the carriage he expected to find other occupants, friends, ex-colleagues; but he was alone. The two young officers talked to each other in low voices and mostly in monosyllables. He made up his bed on one of the wooden benches. A tray was brought in with his dinner: soup, chicken and vegetables, and rice pudding with jam – obviously chosen from the European style menu at the station restaurant. While he ate it one of the officers went for his own dinner. Half an hour later he returned and his companion went for his. Kasim’s tray was taken by a British MP. Another armed sentry joined the first. At about nine o’clock the carriage was coupled to others, and the other officer returned from the restaurant. The two officers settled in the middle of the carriage leaving the guards at one end and Mr Kasim at the other. The train started. Kasim read. The officers continued to talk in low voices. They smoked cigarettes. Occasionally they shared a joke. A ten o’clock while the train was still moving slowly, uncertainly, picking its way across points and iron bridges, Mr Kasim gave the officers a start by rising suddenly and opening his suitcase. He sensed that they touched their holsters to make sure their revolvers were still there. From the suitcase he took out his prayer mat, then turned to them.
‘I suppose neither of you can tell me which direction west is?’ He smiled, was rewarded with vague, uncomprehending but not totally unfriendly negative replies, and then unrolled the mat on the floor, stood for a moment and composed himself in order to begin saying his Isha prayers in a peaceable frame of mind. He then performed in full the four Rak’ahs prescribed.
During the night he woke several times. The officers and the guards were taking it in turns to doze. He observed their faces: slack, remote in the dim pools of light from the overhead bulbs that had been left on. The light scarcely reached the end of the carriage where he lay and once, because he had moved and attracted the attention of the officer whose turn it was to keep watch, he returned the man’s incurious, dispassionate, half-dreaming gaze for what seemed like an age before the man suddenly realized that Kasim’s eyes were also open and looked away, stared down at his folded arms. When Kasim next awoke this man was asleep, his companion sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees, contemplating his clasped hands in one of which a cigarette was burning. Kasim raised his arm and looked at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. Nearly five o’clock. The train was not moving but presumably wasn’t at its destination. Distantly, through the silence, he heard the cry of jackals. He rose, aware of the sharp movement of the wakeful officer keeping a check on him. From his suitcase he took the waterproof bag, leather case, soap-box, towel and shaving kit that he had packed the night before last, and went into the cubicle. There was no lock on the door. A single bulb illuminated dirty green tiles and old, cracked porcelain. Iron bars were set in the window. Behind them was a pane of frosted glass. He showered and shaved, put back on the clothes he ha
d travelled in. The train had begun to move again. The motion set the door swinging open and shut. When he came out both officers were awake. He nodded good-morning to them, returned his things to the suitcase, got out his prayer mat and performed the two Rak’ahs of the Fajr prayers. Making the last prostration he repeated to himself a passage from the Koran. Oh God, glory be to You who made Your servant go by night from the Sacred Mosque to the farther Mosque. Praise be to Allah who has never begotten a son, who has no partner in his Kingdom, who needs none to defend him from humiliation.
Kneeling he rolled the mat up again, returned it to the case and snapped the locks shut. He made up his bedroll and secured the straps. Then he sat on the hard slatted bench. The officers went in turn to the cubicle at the other end of the carriage. The sentry who squatted at the door rose and woke the sleeping sentry, and then lowered the window and looked out. The train came to a halt. Rain was drumming on the roof. Kasim wondered whether his wife was yet awake. He thought of his married daughter in the Punjab, of his son Ahmed in Mirat, and of his elder son Sayed who was God knew in what hell-hole of a prison camp.
The train was, almost imperceptibly, once more in motion. Both officers had completed their ablutions. Now the sentries took it in turns to go into the farther cubicle. The officers mumbled at each other. One of them looked at his watch and stretched, went to the open window. The first light must be beginning to show, Kasim thought. The officer stayed at the window for some time. The overhead bulbs went out. The carriage was permeated with a grey mistiness that brought with it the notion of early morning chill, and the faces of his guards were suddenly like those of strangers. The officer left the window and joined his companion. He must have made some sign. They began to adjust their belts. One reached for his cap. Kasim looked away, feeling the hollowness again. A few minutes later the train came to a halt. For a moment, because of the quietness, Kasim imagined they were held up by signals, but the silence was then broken by a voice speaking outside. Turning to look Kasim saw one of the officers at the window. He spoke to someone well below the level of the carriage. A moment later he opened the door and got down. His companion stayed in the carriage but stood at the open door. He lit a cigarette. One of the soldiers slung his rifle over his shoulder and studied the palm of his left hand as if he’d got a cut or a splinter. The carriage echoed metallically. It was being uncoupled. The rain had stopped falling. There was a whistle from up ahead. Kasim stood. The sentry stopped looking at his hand and the officer in the doorway glanced round, then back through the doorway again. He answered a voice from below and came away from the door. An officer with an armband round his sleeve hauled himself up into the carriage.
‘Mr Mohammed Ali Kasim?’ he inquired, as if making a formal identification.
‘Yes.’
‘This way, please.’
Kasim picked up his suitcase and bedroll. The others stood aside for him. At the doorway he looked down into the face of the officer whose eye he had held during the night. He said, ‘I’d be grateful if you’d help me with my baggage.’
Standing below, near by, were two military policemen. The carriage was in a goods yard. A 15-cwt truck was parked at the shuttered entrance to a warehouse. Kasim smelt coal dust. The officer reached up and Kasim nudged the suitcase forward until he felt its weight taken. The bedroll followed. The officer set both down on the cinders. Kasim turned round to face inwards as he climbed down the narrow, perpendicular steps; then stood waiting. The officer with the armband came down. He indicated the luggage.
‘This is all your luggage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. My men will take you to the truck. Go with them, please.’
‘May I be told where you are taking me?’
The officer with the armband hesitated.
‘To the Fort,’ he said abruptly.
‘The Fort?’
Again the officer hesitated. Kasim thought he was surprised. ‘You’re in Premanagar,’ he explained.
‘Thank you. I didn’t know.’
He glanced round. One railway siding looked like any other. He had not been in Premanagar since his tour of the province in 1938. He had never visited the Fort, but he had seen it from a distance. He had no clear visual recollection of it. Premanagar, he remembered, was not far from Mirat where his son Ahmed was. If they ever told his family where he was, and allowed him visitors, perhaps he would see Ahmed.
II
Major Tippit was a small man with very little hair. What was left of it was yellowy white. His face was lined and wrinkled. He had a high complexion. ‘I’m a historian really,’ he explained. ‘I retired from the army in 1938, but they dug me out. It was decent of them to give me the Fort, wasn’t it?’
Kasim agreed that it was.
‘There’s a lot of history in the Fort. I’m writing a monograph. Perhaps you’d like to read some of it and give me an opinion, one day when you have a moment.’
‘I have a great number of moments.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Let us see, now, how long has it been?’
Major Tippit glanced at the papers on his desk but did not make any effort to find one in particular.
Kasim said, ‘Nine days.’
‘And you are comfortable?’
‘I am comfortable.’
‘Have you any complaints?’
‘Several.’
‘Oh yes. Lieutenant Moran Singh told me he’d made a note of them. It’s here somewhere I expect. I’ll look into them.’
‘Can’t you look into them now?’
Major Tippit had very pale blue eyes. He gazed out of them at Kasim as if he had reasons for not dealing with complaints but couldn’t remember what they were. He clasped his bony little hands together on the desk – the kind of man, Kasim guessed, who, lacking skill, energy or resolution, would make up for them with a mindless, vegetable implacability. The unpleasant young Sikh, nominally under Major Tippit’s command, would know exactly how far he could go, what would be allowed to him by way of license, and what disallowed.
‘First of all,’ Kasim said, ‘is it really Government’s intention to keep me in solitary confinement? I understand the Fort has a number of civil prisoners like myself. We are not criminals. We shall probably be here for some time. The others seem to mix quite freely. I can see them in the outer courtyard from the window of my room. But since coming here I’ve been kept isolated and have spoken to no one except my guards and Lieutenant Moran Singh. Is this state of affairs merely temporary or is it to continue?’
‘Yes, I see.’
Kasim waited.
‘I am sorry you feel like that. The old zenana house is extremely interesting. I must come over one day and point out some of its more remarkable features.’
‘Some of my fellow-prisoners would be interested in it too.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. If I may make bold, they are not of similar intellectual calibre. The other prisoners here are very much from the rank and file of your movement.’ A look of almost intense disappointment came on to Major Tippit’s face, as if he had only just realized what they were talking about. ‘We were told several weeks ago that we might have to provide accommodation for a VIP detenu. Of course we immediately thought of Mr Gandhi or Mr Nehru. At first I believed we had nothing suitable. Amazing how you can overlook something that’s right under your nose. I had become so used to sitting here and looking through the window and seeing the zenana house, so used to going over there and using it for my own private purposes – I did a great deal of reading and writing and studying there – that I came to think of it really as an extension of my office. Then of course it struck me how eminently suitable it was. In the heart of the citadel, and if I may say so, constantly under my eye. One has that kind of obligation if one takes one’s duties seriously. I made the necessary arrangements at once. It was the last thing I did before going on leave. One has to be prepared. I knew I would miss using the little house. I always found it so co
nducive to meditation. I confess I was a little sad when I returned last night and Lieutenant Moran Singh said that the zenana house was now occupied. However, I was most interested when he told me who you were. A member of the ancient house of Kasim. The Fort was once within the territory administered by the Kasim who was a viceroy of the great Moghul. But you know that? Your kinsman, the present Nawab of Mirat, is directly descended from him. I thought last night how interesting it was that a Kasim should have come back to stay in Premanagar. And frankly I was rather relieved that the occupant of the zenana house was of the Faith. Tell me, are you a Sunni or a Shiah Muslim?’
‘Major Tippit, you have not answered my complaint. My impression is that the officers who conducted me from Ranpur brought a letter to you from Sir George Malcolm. Is there anything in that letter that suggested I should be kept isolated?’
‘A letter?’
‘I think the one near your left elbow. I recognize the heading.’
Tippit looked down, picked the letter up, glanced at it.
‘Oh yes. Lieutenant Moran Singh mentioned a letter. I have not read it yet.’
‘Would you do so now?’
Tippit looked down again, stared at the letter. His eyes showed no movement of reading. After a while he replaced the letter near his left elbow.
‘Well?’ Kasim asked. ‘Is there anything that suggests or orders solitary confinement?’
‘No.’
‘Is there anything about newspapers?’